TRUST HER NOT! SHE IS FOOLING THEE!
As the Sunset flames most fiery when snuffed out by sudden night;
As the Swan reserves its twitter till about to hop the twig;
As the Cobra's head swells biggest just before he does his bite;
So a feminine smiles her sweetest ere she gives her nastiest dig.
_Satirical Stanza (unpublished) by H. B. J._
Now that our hero had obtained that the name of _Milky Way_ was to be
inscribed on the Golden Book of Derby candidates, his next proceeding
was to hire a practical jockey to assume supreme command of her.
And this was no simple matter, since practical jockeys are usually hired
many weeks beforehand, and demand handsome wages for taking their seats.
But at last, after protracted advertisements, Mr Bhosh had the good
fortune to pitch upon a perfect treasure, whose name was Cadwallader
Perkin, and who, for his riding in some race or other, had been awarded
a whole year's holiday by the stewards who had observed the paramountcy
of his horsemanship.
No sooner had Perkin inspected _Milky Way_ than he was quite in love
with his stable companion, and assured his employer that, with more
regular out-of-door exercise, she would be easily competent to win the
Derby on her head, whereupon Mr Bhosh consented that she should be
galloped after dark round the inner circle of Regent's Park, which is
chiefly populated at such a time by male and female bicyclists.
But in order to pay Perkins charges, and also provide a silken jockey
tunic and cap of his own racing colours (which were cream and sky-blue),
Mr Bhosh was compelled to borrow more money from Mr McAlpine, who, as
a Jewish Scotch, exacted the rather exorbitant interest of sixty per
centum.
It leaked out in some manner that _Milky Way_ was a coming Derby
favourite, and the property of a Native young Indian sportsman, whose
entire fortunes depended on her success, and soon immense multitudes
congregated in Regent's Park to witness her trials of speed, and cheered
enthusiastically to behold the fiery sparks scintillating from the
stones as she circumvented the inner circle in seven-leagued boots.
Mr Bhosh of course asseverated that she was a very mediocre sort of
mare, and that he did not at all expect that she would prove a winner,
but connoisseurs nevertheless betted long odds upon her success, and
Bindabun himself, though not a speculative, did put on the pot himself
upon the golden egg which he was so anxiously hatching.
One evening amongst those who were gathered to view the nocturnal
exercises of _Milky Way_ there appeared a feminine spectator of rather
sinister aspect, in a thick veil and a victoria-carriage.
It was no other than Duchess Dickinson, who had somehow learnt how
courageously Mr Bhosh was endeavouring to fulfil the Astrologer-Royal's
prediction, and who had come to ascertain whether his mare was indeed
such a paragon of celerity as had been represented.
The very first time that _Milky Way_ cantered past with the gait of a
streak of lightning, the Duchess realised with a sinking heart that Mr
Bhosh must indubitably succeed at the Derby--_unless he was prevented_.
But how to achieve this? Her womanly instinct told her that Cadwallader
Perkin was far too inexperienced to resist for long such mature and
ripened charms as hers--even though the latter were unfortunately
discounted by the accidental nose-flattening.
So, lowering her veil till only her eyes were visible above, she waited
till he passed once more, then flung him such a liquid and flashing
glance from her starry and now no longer discoloured optics that the
young jockey, who was of an excessively susceptible disposition, all
but fell off the saddle with emotion, like a very juvenile bird under
serpentine observation.
"He is mine!" said the unscrupulous Duchess internally, laughing up her
sleeve at such a proof of her fascinations, "mine! mine!"
She had too much intelligence and mother-wit, however, to take any steps
until Mr Bhosh should be safely out of the way--and how to accomplish
his removal?
As an acquaintance with the above-mentioned usurer, McAlpine, she was
aware that he had advanced large loans to Mr Bhosh, and so she laid her
plans and bided her time.
There soon remained only one day before that carnival of all sporting
saturnalians, the Epsom Derby day, and Bindabun formed the prudent
resolution to avoid any delays or crushings by putting _Milky Way_ into
a railway box, and despatching her to Epsom on the previous afternoon,
under the chaperonage of Cadwallader Perkin, who was to engage suitable
lodgings for her in the vicinity of the course.
But just as Bindabun was approaching the booking hole of Victoria
terminus to take a horse-ticket, lo and behold! he was rapped on the
shoulder by a couple of policemen, who civilly inquired whether his name
was not Bhosh.
He replied that it was, and that he was the lucky proprietor of a female
horse who was infallibly destined to win the Derby, and that he was even
now proceeding to purchase her travelling ticket. But the policemen
insisted that he must first discharge the full amount of his debt and
costs to Mr McAlpine, who had commenced a law-suit.
"It is highly inconvenient to pay now," replied our hero, "I will settle
up after receiving my Derby Stakes."
"We are infernally sorry," said the constables, "but we have
instructions to imprison you until the amount is stumped up, and
anything you say now will be taken down and used against you at your
trial."
Mr Bhosh remained _sotto voce_; and as he was being led off with gyves
upon his wrists, like Aram the usher, whom should he behold but the
Duchess of Dickinson!
Like all truly first-class heroes, he was of a generous, confiding
nature, and his head was not for a moment entered by the suspicion that
the Duchess could still cherish any ill feelings towards him. "I am
sincerely sorry," he said with good-humoured gallantry, "to observe that
your ladyship's nose-leather is still in such bad repair. I was riding a
rather muscular steed that afternoon, and could not thoroughly control
my movements."
She suavely responded that she was proud to have been the means of
breaking his fall.
"Not only my fall--but your own nose!" retorted Mr. Bhosh
sympathetically. "A sad pity! Fortunately, at your time of life such
disfigurements are of no consequence. I, myself, am now in the pretty
pickle."
And he explained how he had been arrested for debt, at the very moment
when he had an appointment to meet his mare and jockey and see them
safely off by the Epsom train.
"Do not trouble about that," said the Duchess. "Hand me your purse, and
I myself will meet them and do the needful on your behalf. I have
interest with this Mr McAlpine and will intercede that you are let
out immediately."
Mr Bhosh kissed her hand as he handed over his said purse. "This is,
indeed, a noble return for my coldheartedness," he said, "and I am even
more sorry than before that I should have involuntarily dilapidated so
exquisite a nose."
"Pray do not mention it," replied the Duchess, with the baleful simper
of a Sphynx, and Mr Bhosh departed for his durance vile with a mind
totally free from misgivings.